Chapter 9: Ashes of an Empire

The acrid smell of burning plastic filled the narrow server room in seconds. The ventilation grilles overhead hissed, pumping thick, dark smoke directly into the enclosed space. The server racks began to whine, their cooling fans spinning out of control as the temperature spiked dramatically.

"She's overheating the servers!" Trev yelled over the wailing alarm. "She's trying to start a thermal fire!"

"The fire suppression system should kick in!" Hannah coughed, pulling her silk dress up to cover her nose and mouth.

"She disabled it!" Trev grabbed Hannah's arm, yanking her away from the console. "She controls the building systems, remember? She’s turning the penthouse into an incinerator to destroy the physical evidence."

"My team is on their way up!" Hannah shouted, tears of smoke stinging her eyes.

"They won't make it in time if the elevators are shut down!" Trev pushed her out of the hidden door back into the study.

The study was already hazy. The smoke was pouring from the vents in the ceiling, obscuring the panoramic view of the city. The digital timer on the television had vanished, replaced by a flashing red warning: EVACUATE. But the heavy front doors remained deadbolted.

"We need to break the glass," Hannah gasped, pointing to the windows. "The balcony."

"I told you, it's reinforced!"

"Then we find something heavy enough!" Hannah screamed, panic finally cracking her professional veneer. She grabbed a bronze statue from the coffee table, a heavy abstract piece, and hurled it at the window with all her might.

It bounced off the thick glass with a dull thud, leaving barely a scratch.

Trev ran to the kitchen, ripping open drawers. He pulled out a heavy meat cleaver. He ran to the door, hacking furiously at the electronic locking mechanism. Sparks flew, but the reinforced steel casing held firm.

The smoke was getting thicker, dropping lower from the ceiling. Breathing was becoming labored. Hannah sank to the floor, where the air was marginally cleaner, coughing violently.

"Trev," she wheezed. "It's no use."

Trev dropped the cleaver, his chest heaving. He looked at the woman who had deceived him, the woman who had gathered the evidence to destroy him, and realized he didn't want her to die.

"The panic room," Trev gasped, dropping to his knees beside her.

"What?"

"There's a panic room. In the master bedroom." Trev hauled her to her feet, supporting her weight. "My father built it to withstand a bomb blast. It has an independent oxygen supply."

They stumbled through the sprawling apartment, the smoke now so thick they could barely see the walls. Flames were beginning to lick out from the study as the overheated servers finally caught fire. The heat was blistering.

Trev kicked open the master bedroom door. He dragged Hannah to the walk-in closet, shoving past racks of designer suits and silk dresses. He pressed his hand against the back wall, feeling for the hidden seam.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, coughing as a lungful of smoke choked him.

He found the latch. He pulled hard, and a heavy steel door swung open. Inside, emergency lights flickered on, illuminating a stark, concrete-lined room.

He shoved Hannah inside and stepped in after her, grabbing the heavy handle to pull the door shut.

Just as the door was about to seal, a figure stepped out of the smoke in the bedroom.

Trev froze.

Standing there, holding a sleek black handgun pointed directly at them, was a man in a tailored suit. He wore a gas mask, his eyes cold and unreadable behind the glass.